


Performance Anxiety

by Meadowlark27



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Oral Sex, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:59:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meadowlark27/pseuds/Meadowlark27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss hates everything about her high school's arts requirement. That is, until she gets cozy with the drama teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this was only supposed to be a quick Tumblr drabble, but I couldn't stay away from this universe.

Katniss loved chemical formulas and qualitative analyses and mitochondria, while Delly loved hairspray and cute boys with dimples, the latter of which was the reason for their enrollment in  _Intro to Drama I_  first semester of their junior year.

“I heard there’s going to be a new teacher,” Delly had giggled as they waited in line for registration that previous April. “And—” The blonde leaned in, her lips inches from Katniss’s ear. “—I heard he’s  _cute_.”

Katniss had shrugged, because unlike her friend, she fully respected the parameters of authority. “And legally above the age of consent.”

Delly had rolled her eyes, nudging her friend’s hip with her own. “Can’t appreciate a little eye candy?”

“Not when that eye candy is at least ten years older than us, and probably ridiculously self-absorbed.”

Well, much to her alarm, the new drama teacher was anything but. She’d eventually been persuaded by Delly to sign up together – Katniss needed to fill the arts requirement before graduation, so why not do so with her friend? – and had fully anticipated sitting in the back of the class and putting in the least amount of effort that’d still maintain her perfect 4.0. She  _hadn’t_  anticipated that walking in six minutes before the bell would bring her immediately into the spotlight.

She was the first to enter the room on the initial day of classes, slightly intrigued but not at all enamored with the broad shoulders flexing and tightening the baby blue dress shirt as the blonde-haired man scrawled his name on the board.

_Mr. Mellark._

Katniss was about to slip into the seat in the back corner when the teacher turned around, his eyes immediately falling on her.

Katniss’s feet sealed themselves to the floor. Her face boiled as he looked her over with a friendly grin, and she hated him,  _hated_  him, because he must’ve worn that color on purpose just to make his eyes pop, and  _how dare he._

“Hello,” he greeted, and her throat synched and cracked as he made his way toward her. Wasn’t he supposed to go plop his unfortunately-cute butt in his swivel chair and ignore her until the bell rang?

“H-hi,” she stammered, flustered, pathetically grabbing his hand when he offered it to her. His palm was warm, large, slightly callused. He had a bit of a baby face, with round, pink cheeks, the cutting jawline the only proof that he wasn’t still a teenager. Jesus. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty-two, twenty-three. Probably fresh out of college.

“I’m Mr. Mellark.” He grinned at her, and she wanted it to be cocky and complacent, but it was nothing but vibrantly warm. She briefly considered hiding under a desk.

“Katniss,” she offered back with a mumble.

He let go of her hand. “Nice to meet you, Katniss. And welcome to Intro to Drama. Have any grand acting ambitions?”

“Just an ambition to fulfill my arts requirement,” she said. Katniss and Honesty had been best pals since elementary school, which was a bond that couldn’t be broken by even an unfairly attractive teacher. Teacher.  _Teacher_ , she reminded herself, rather forcefully.

To her surprise, Mr. Mellark actually chuckled, briefly looking over his shoulder as a pair of students filed in. “I appreciate the candor. But if I do my job well, hopefully I’ll be able to change that.”

She gave him a weak smile as he left her to go welcome the other students, but surprised herself by ambling to the front of the room, making herself comfortable in the second row.

When Delly walked in right before the bell rang, sliding into the seat beside her friend, she leaned over and whispered, “I was  _sure_  I’d find you in the back.”

Katniss shrugged. “Weren’t any open seats,” she mumbled, hoping Delly wouldn’t notice the color flowering in her cheeks.

* * *

The jagged surface of the brick wall carved into Katniss’s spine as she tucked her knees into her chest, hiding her face in her thighs. This was going to be awful. _Awful._

“You alright?”

His voice was the last voice she wanted to hear, so gentle and satiny and _concerned_ , heaven forbid. She looked up from her spot on the floor to see Mr. Mellark hovering over her, his folder tucked in the crook of his arm, a stray curl falling over his crinkled brow.

She gave him a quick nod, swallowing the dizzying swirls of anxiety that had put her here in the first place. “Yeah. Just dandy.”

He surprised her by staying, running his hands through his hair. “Stage fright, I’m guessing?”

_No shit, Sherlock._  Katniss was immune to test anxiety – she was the pop-quiz-slaying queen of the entire institution – but the idea of standing in front of a crowd of her (judgmental) peers instantly french-braided her intestines. She was nearly positive she was about to vomit.

Her classmates were filing into the auditorium, throwing her and Mr. Mellark curious glances, but only Delly stopped to stand a few feet back, waiting for their teacher to leave before swooping in.

But he remained.

“You aren’t the first person to be nervous about performing, and you certainly won’t be the last.” His voice was soft and encouraging, but it did nothing to her knotted stomach. “You’ll get through this assignment in one piece. You might even do  _okay_.”

He grinned at her, which made the corner of her mouth twitch unintentionally.

“Look, the monologue is a necessary part of your grade, so it’s something you’ll have to do, regardless of how terrifying it is. And I’ve got faith that you’ll rise to the occasion.” He lowered his hand to her. Her eyes flickering from his palm to his relaxed face, she waited for a few seconds before grasping it, allowing him to pull her up.

“But, in the case that you don’t,” he continued as he corralled her into the auditorium, Delly awkwardly drifting behind them. A jolt of raw electricity shredded Katniss’s nervous system as she felt his fingers ghost over the small of her back, probably inadvertently. “You can make up the grade somehow. You’re a good student, Ms. Everdeen.”

“And a terrible actress,” she grumbled.

“Well, that’s for me to decide,” he chuckled. “But I’m sure you’ll do great.”

* * *

She didn’t do great.

She didn’t physically face-plant, or projectile vomit over the stage, but whatever meager excuse of a monologue she gave wasn’t much better than either of those alternatives. She forgot half of her lines and swayed on her feet like an arrhythmic pendulum, and ended up crying over the bathroom sink afterward.

“If you want to make up the points, you can write me a four-page paper over _Streetcar Named Desire_  by next Friday,” he told her when she came to him after school, his tone laced with sympathetic apology. She hoped her eyes weren’t still red. They felt like they were, though, with the relentless stinging.

“I’ll do it.” She wiped her nose. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mellark.”

It was the first time she’d performed for him in the two months that they’d had class. In the three months that remained, she decided she’d do anything to win back his respect. She didn’t know why she wanted it so badly – she’d been so intent on hating him at the beginning of the semester. But she couldn’t hate him now. Not with those puppy eyes.

He planted his elbows on his desk, leaning forward as he stared up at her. “Hey, we all give bad performances. I’m not giving up on you yet.”

* * *

Clearly, he wasn’t about to go back on his word.

When she turned in her paper, he seemed floored with her response.

“You’ve got quite an eye, you know.”

“What?”

“For themes. Symbolism. Character development. I had no idea someone so young could be as perceptive as you,” he complimented, eyes twinkling. “Your examination of light-versus-dark, about the imagery… Katniss, it was incredible. I don’t think I could’ve written this caliber of analysis until I was at least a junior in college.”

Billows of pink swirled in her cheeks, and she self-consciously looked at her toes. “Oh.”

“Maybe acting isn’t your thing, but I refuse to believe you’re a lost cause in the drama department. You’re a bright girl, you know.”

She knew she was, in some respects. She’d aced Chem with a 98%, received a 5 on her AP Stats exam as a sophomore, and managed to reach a 34 on her ACT the year before. But plays? Literary analyses? She’d always assumed they were far beyond her realm of expertise.

All she managed to respond with was a pathetic blush as she self-consciously grinded her molars together.

“Have you ever thought about working tech?”

Katniss’s eyes snapped up to his as she arched a brow. “For the play?”

“I mean, it’s too late for the fall production, but auditions for the winter musical start up in mid-November. But you wouldn’t have to be onstage. You could work the light board. Or sound.”

“Mr. Mellark—”

“I mean, I know you’re busy with other academics, but this would…” He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “This would really round you out, Katniss. Not only could you do it well, but from a college résumé standpoint, working in the theatre  _and_ the lab will make you twice as marketable.”

She could see the strained lines in his jaw, the tightened muscles in his chest, and she knew it was hard for him to say that. But, he knew how to get to her. He knew she wasn’t here for the course material; she was here out of necessity. What he  _didn’t_  know, but must’ve at least presumed – to some degree – was that Katniss’s single mother could hardly put food on the table, so unless she managed to rack up an arsenal of killer scholarships, higher education wasn’t in the cards for her.

Maybe this would be her golden ticket.

She sighed, shifting on the balls of her feet.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll sign up.”

* * *

The winter musical was  _Phantom of the Opera_ , which was probably a little too ambitious for a school that barely sported 500 students, but Mr. Mellark was nothing if not an envelope-pusher. Besides, the roles of the Phantom and Christine were practically predestined by the gods themselves; a tall, broody, handsome boy by the name of Gale – who couldn’t exactly sing  _opera_ , per se, but he had a nice enough voice and rocked his role as the lead in the fall play – was the obvious choice for the Phantom, and Clove, who unfortunately had the personality of a bottle of hot sauce, would have to be Christine, since she actually _could_  sing opera. Granted, the role was a  _tad_  bit out of her range, since Clove was a Soprano 2, but Katniss was sure Mr. Mellark could change the key signature if necessary. Or work around it in other ways.

Katniss refused to audition for a role in the play, willing to take on whatever techie position Mr. Mellark needed. Whether that be light board operator, or chief of sound, or even makeup… she’d do it. For her résumé, she’d do anything.

And for Mr. Mellark, that held true, too. It was something she hated to admit, but somewhere along the way, he’d managed to fill the role of her favorite teacher. His class was the worst thing to happen to her – she barely had an A – but  _he_ , on the other hand, had transformed into quite the mentor. He was kind, encouraging, and surprisingly directed a subtle favoritism her way that only Delly seemed to notice.

“You’re obviously his favorite student,” Delly had said a few weeks prior, her eyes sparkling with an insinuation that made Katniss’s stomach coil up.

Katniss didn’t think that was true, but if it was, the thought had grown into something that made her skin prickle with warmth instead of disgusting her.

During auditions, Katniss was working in one of the practice rooms, prompting students with lines if they needed help, when a flustered Mr. Mellark slipped in.

“Katniss, can I ask a huge favor of you?”

Ignoring the student who was just about to start her rehearsal monologue, Katniss stood up immediately, meeting him by the door as he held out a small packet toward her.

“We ran out of copies of the score for the auditions. Think you can make me thirty?”

“Sure,” she offered, and he led her out, motioning toward the music office as he hurried back toward the audition room.

She hadn’t worked a copy machine before, but the one in the music office was fairly self-explanatory. It only took a few moments of awkwardly nudging buttons and shifting papers around before the thing whirred to life, the mechanical screaming drowning out the rest of the sounds in the room. Without thinking much of it, her lungs filled with air, and she began singing the beginning of  _Think of Me_ , which had been stuck in her head for the entire week, as the entire music wing was filled with wannabe-Christines tone-deafly belting out its lyrics. She liked the song enough – when it wasn’t being sung by a girl who sounded like a toucan – but hadn’t really allowed herself to give it a spin until now.

It came naturally, though. The sound resonated well in the back of her throat. She was a true soprano, too, so the high notes arced nicely, her body tingling with relief. Singing was something she used to do with her father before he passed away. Rarely did she allow herself to indulge in music much anymore, but in this moment, it felt right.

She continued on even after the motorized whine of the copy machine died out, her fingers rifling through the warm mountain of sheet music. As she sorted through the papers and put them in order, she repeated the song a second time, loving the way it tasted in her mouth. God, she really did miss singing.

When the packets were in order, she turned around to seek out a stapler, when all the heat and color immediately drained from her face.

There stood Mr. Mellark, cautiously, his face pale and woven with shock.

Katniss startled, stepping back. “M-Mr. M—” Her muscles started to tremble. “How long have you been there?”

He didn’t answer her question, his palm flying to his forehead. “I’m sorry, I just—I wanted to see how the copies were coming along, and—”

He must’ve come in several minutes before, when the copy machine would’ve drowned out the sound of a door opening.

Oh god. Oh  _god_. He heard it all, then. Her voice. Everything. Oh god.

“I—”

“Katniss, that was…” He shook his head, a disbelieving smile creasing at the corners of his lips. “You’ve got an incredible voice. You know that, right?”

Yes, she did, she supposed. She had her father’s voice. But that wasn’t the issue.

“Pretend you didn’t hear me,” she commanded, almost gruffly. Her voice wasn’t his to hear. It wasn’t  _anyone’s_  to hear, except for her little sister, and the birds in the wood by her house, and the patch of dandelions freckled over her father’s grave.

His eyes bugged out a little, and his chest heaved. “What?” And then: “I—I can’t, Katniss. You—”

“Mr. Mellark—”  _Don’t say it,_  she wanted to snarl.

He inhaled. “—should be Christine. You’d be the  _perfect_  Christine.”

And, there it was.

She winced, striding over to him and dumping the copies in his hands. “I can’t act. You know that.”

“You’ve done  _one_  monologue, one that tanked because you had no faith in yourself. If we worked on the whole stage-fright thing—”

“ _No._ ”

“Katniss—”

She refused to listen any longer, shouldering her way past him and storming out of the music office.

* * *

She didn’t know how he found her here, or even why he did – had he gone looking for her after the auditions were over? – but somehow, he managed to scout her out on the bleachers edging the soccer field, her hood popped over her braid, her palms flattened against her burning cheeks.

He slid onto the metal bench beside her.

“I’m sorry, Katniss.”

She didn’t know why he was doing this. He was her teacher. He shouldn’t care.

So, she didn’t say anything, watching the branches of the bare trees lining the fields tremble in the breeze.

“Look, you don’t want to do the musical. As your teacher, and a decent human being, I need to respect that. I wanted to apologize for making you feel pressured or uncomfortable.”

She dared herself to look at him, knowing full-well she’d instantly regret it. Which, of course, she did; his hair was slightly wind-swept, curls wild from a long day of auditions, cheeks tinged pink from the cold, lips pursed, eyes apologetic. Dimples. Dimples, dimples, dimples.

And he was so  _close_.

She instantly looked away, as if his image physically burned her retinas, her eyes pinning back on the trees across the soccer field.

“I’m not—I wasn’t upset that you asked me to act, Mr. Mellark.”

“You have every right to be, though. Pressuring you into that position was both inconsiderate  _and_  unprofessional.”

She sighed, her teeth worrying the inside of her cheek, her toes crinkling inside her boots.

“I—I just don’t sing for people.”

She could hear his breath hitch. He paused.

And finally: “Why?”

Her shoulders bowed in a little, her chest hurting at the thought of explaining it to him. It wasn’t something she’d ever considered announcing before, but there was something about Mr. Mellark – potentially the fact that he was a teacher, and couldn’t tell anyone, or maybe it was because she simply trusted him not to be judgmental, and something inside her told her that he might, somehow, understand – that made her walls disintegrate.

“My dad used to sing for me. I’d sing back to him. We used to sing together, all the time.” Her nails dug into her palms, so she pulled the worn edges of her jacket over her hands. “He passed away when I was eleven. Singing was his thing, you know? Or our thing, really. It isn’t fair for me to do this without him.”

She refused to steal a glance at him this time, knowing it’d melt her insides or do something else revolting.

There was a long stretch of silence before he murmured, “If he were alive, what would he  _want_  you to do?”

She’d expected the typical, pitying “I’m sorry,” or the even more disrespectful, “How’d he die?” But she should’ve known better, because Mr. Mellark wasn’t like that, not at all.

So, this question shocked her, even though she should’ve anticipated it. Her heart shriveled, her tongue drying and swelling between her teeth. She knew what her father would want. Exactly.

But instead of admitting it, she steeled her expression, tensing her jaw.

“It doesn’t matter what he’d want. He’s not here to want it.”

* * *

Karma finally caught up to Clove right before Christmas break. Her calc professor caught her cheating on an exam, which would’ve been entertaining to Katniss, had it not meant Clove was suspended and officially out of the play.

So, they had no Christine.

She knew exactly what this meant.

After finals, she went to speak to Mr. Mellark, finding him hunched over his desk with his hands knotted in his curls.

“I don’t know what to do,” he told her when she sat down across from him. “There’s no one.”

He’d assigned Katniss the role of co-stage manager, alongside Madge Undersee, who was twice as enthusiastic as her but only half as organized. The two made a good team.

But, Madge could do this on her own, as much as Katniss hated to admit. What she hated even  _more_  was what she knew she had to do. Not for herself, but for Mr. Mellark. It was his first musical, and considering the fact that he was her favorite teacher, she at least felt  _some_  moral obligation to guarantee his show wouldn’t crash and burn.

“I’ll do it,” she blurted, the words burning like acid on her tongue. But this was the right thing. Hopefully.

His gaze snapped up, eyes shocked but minutely skeptical.

“You’ll play Christine?”

She shrugged. “I mean, I know the music. I sort of know her lines. If there’s no one else—”

“There  _is_  no one else.”

Her toes tapped against the carpet, chest tingling. Jesus, she already regretted this.

The smile she gave him was weak, but even in its uncertainty, it was still genuine.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you, Mr. Mellark,” she teased.

* * *

It was a disaster.

She was fine on her own – her reflection in the mirror was a  _phenomenal_  actress – but as soon as she had actual eyes for an audience, her confidence crumbled, and so did her memory.

Mr. Mellark had to feed her lines like pureed carrots to a baby.

The musical was set to debut in February, and by mid-January, she decided the show would be better if they let her sister’s grouchy cat play Christine.

“I’m  _awful_ ,” she sputtered in Mr. Mellark’s office after practice one day, bidding the tears to soak back into her eyes.

“You’re not,” he assured, although it must’ve been a lie. “You’re just psyching yourself out.”

“Why did you let me  _do_  this?”

To her surprise, he chuckled,  _chuckled_ , as if she wasn’t about to single-handedly shred his first musical into tiny, pathetic shards of failure.

“Look. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. But I trust you, okay?”

“How can you trust me? I don’t even trust myself!”

He leaned in. “Let’s practice your scenes with just you and Gale, alright? It’ll be only the three of us.”

Well, two viewers  _was_  more reassuring than the entire damn cast.

She swallowed hard.

“Yeah, okay. I guess we can give that a shot.”

* * *

To her surprise – and Mr. Mellark’s, and Gale’s – her performance was significantly better the following rehearsal, when the auditorium was empty. Mr. Mellark was perched at the edge of the stage, watching Katniss and Gale volley their lines back and forth. When the time for their duet arose, Katniss was relaxed enough that she actually managed to sing, which was a first. Up until now, her voice always fizzled out on the first word, sending her choking and sputtering.

When the rehearsal was over, Katniss sat outside with Gale on the curb.

“We were all so wrong about you, Katniss,” the boy said, offering her one of his rare smiles.

Her fingers plucked at the end of her braid. “Well, just wait until the rest of the cast comes back. Then I’ll go back to being a certified mute.”

He startled her by scooching a little closer. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

She swallowed. “Uh… thanks.”

The wind was bitter, numbing her nose and sending her fingers retracting into her coat sleeves. Gale was watching her, as if he was expecting something.

Suddenly: “Hey, so you know, we have that kissing scene—”

Katniss choked. “Didn’t Mr. Mellark say we could just hug?”

He had. He’d told her that if it made her more comfortable, they could just embrace instead. It was a small school play, after all. It wasn’t like they had any grand expectations bearing down on their shoulders.

Yet, she found Gale shrugging, looking at her sheepishly. “Yeah, well… I mean, wouldn’t it be more…  _authentic_  if we, uh… if we kissed?”

“I guess, but—”

“It would make the play a lot better…”

“Yeah, but—”

“And don’t you want to make it as good as possible?”

Katniss blinked, lips pursing in preparation to reject him, yet her voice met its dissolution in her throat.

* * *

Gale’s shoulders were broadened, his tongue darting over his lips as she slowly waded up to him. The music score in the background grew, reaching a crescendo as she neared, her heart thrumming like a timpani against her ribcage as she anticipated what came next.

She felt the rest of the cast and crew’s eyes on her, and she knew what they were expecting. She was afraid to do this, but Gale had assured her it would be alright, that it would make the scene more powerful. As much as it frightened her to admit it, he wasn’t wrong.

The lyrics swelled in her mouth as she ghosted closer –  _God give me courage to show you you are not alone –_  and she took a deep breath, watching as Gale’s eyes pinned on her lips. She eliminated the space between them, stretching on her tip-toes as her hands cupped the back of his neck, weaving in his dark hair.

Her lips sealed underneath his, and she heard a few startled gasps from the viewers, but she disregarded them. All her energy was drilling into this kiss – it was her first, and she wasn’t so sure what she was doing. Gale was, however, taking the lead and swiping his tongue across her lip. She wanted to shrink away – were kisses supposed to be this wet? And taste like Cheetos? – but she refused, finishing out the measure in the score before breaking away.

Gale’s chest was heaving, and behind him she saw Madge and Delly peeking from around the curtain, shock screwed into their features.

“Cut!”

The music died out, and her head whipped to the edge of the stage where Mr. Mellark was propped, his jaw slackened in shock. Immediately, heat trickled into her cheeks, and she tried to tear her eyes away, but she couldn’t.

All she could do was wipe her now-soggy mouth with the back of her hand.

“That was, uh…  _powerful_ , guys,” Mr. Mellark began, his voice slow with caution. “But you know you don’t have to do that, if you’re not comfortable.”

He was speaking to both of them, but his gaze was fixed on Katniss. The lights were pinned on her and Gale, which left her director’s body swathed in shadows, but she could still make out his expression. Mostly shock was planted on his features, but there was something else, too. Confusion, maybe? She wouldn’t go as far to say  _anger_ , too, but whatever it was, it wasn’t very far off.

What was going on? Why was he upset?

Something flitted over her elbow, and she jumped a little when she realized it was Gale’s hand. His palm cupped the back of her arm, almost possessively.

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice a little sharper than anticipated. “We’re comfortable with it.”

Mr. Mellark’s eyebrows arched, but then his jaw hardened. “Oh. Well, alright.” Still, his gaze was pinned on her, drawing out the heat in her cheeks and making her heart hammer. “If that’s what you  _both_  want.”

The way he drew out the word  _both_  confused her, and also made her body tingle. She had no idea what was going on. Why he was acting like that. Why  _Gale_  was acting like that.

She shook her head to clear the fog there, pivoting back into her position so they could go through the scene again.

* * *

After rehearsal was over, Delly and Madge yanked Katniss backstage with them.

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Delly panted, her eyes shimmering in the poor lighting.

“What?”

“That was one hell of a stand-off,” Madge said, grinning.

Katniss frowned. What the hell were they talking about?

Seemingly reading her mind, Delly giggled, “It looks like you have two suitors.”

“Suitors?” Katniss hissed.

“Gale and Mr. Mellark.”

Katniss’s entire digestive system erupted into flames.

“ _Mr. Mellark_?” she screeched, and then slapped her palm over her mouth, mortified with her volume.

“He  _totally_  has a thing for you,” Madge said. “I mean, when you and Gale started playing tonsil-hockey up there, he looked like he was about to have an aneurism.”

“We weren’t—he wasn’t—you’re both being— _tonsil hockey_?”

Delly giggled, nudging Madge. “And then when Gale grabbed your arm—”

“—I mean, Delly and I were so sure they were about to start facing off—”

“—like, do some weird mating ritual thing, you know?” Delly laughed. “Duel for your hand and all.”

Katniss considered whether lying face-down on the floor or slapping her friends would be more appropriate.

Instead, she settled on snarling, “You two are absolutely  _insane_.”

“I think it’s cute,” Delly said with a shrug. “I mean, Mr. Mellark’s young. And really,  _really_  handsome.”

“Yeah, well, so is Gale,” Madge countered. And then, she aimed a sympathetic smile Katniss’s way. “And you can legally date Gale.”

“I don’t  _want_  to date Gale!”

“What about Mr. Mellark?” Delly asked.

Jesus, these two were insufferable. Katniss wanted to roll herself up in the velvet curtains to the point of asphyxiation. “Look. I’m not interested in Gale  _or_  Mr. Mellark. Alright? Gale’s too broody, and Mr. Mellark is my professor. So let it go.”

Both Delly and Madge opened their mouths, potentially to continue their ribbing of their already-flustered friend, but Katniss refused to allow herself to fall victim, shouldering past them and making her way to the exit.

* * *

Trembles wracked through Katniss’s body as she sat at the piano in the practice room, her index finger aimlessly dipping at the keys. This was the only quiet place she could find; the dressing rooms were brimming with squealing girls who were, like her, on edge about the show, but at least their anxiety was more of a nervous excitement, whereas Katniss’s was undiluted panic.

It was opening night.

Katniss knew her lines. She knew her lyrics. In dress rehearsal the night before, things had actually gone smoothly.  _Too_  smoothly. She could feel trouble lurking in the corner, waiting to pounce when she least expected it. She was going to fail – there was no doubt in her mind. And then Mr. Mellark would hate her.

Although, maybe he already did. For the past few weeks, he’d been awfully distant. Not rude or cold, just unbecomingly withdrawn; she’d tried to speak with him, and he’d let her engage him, but he didn’t smile the same, and he didn’t lean in when she spoke, and his cheeks weren’t that same, innocent shade of pink, and his jaw was always,  _always_  flexed.

She hunched over the piano, her nerves doing the cha-cha inside her quaking veins.

She tried to sing a little, to warm up her voice, but the sound crackled like a malfunctioning firework in the back of her throat. She felt like she was going to vomit.

And then, there was a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in,” she said weakly.

She could  _feel_  him before she saw him; he had a presence that was nearly palpable, or maybe it was just the scent of cinnamon. Either way, the hair on the back of her neck prickled as the door to the practice room clicked shut.

“I was looking everywhere for you,” Mr. Mellark said.

She, per usual, refused to look directly at him, in the same way one would refuse to look directly at the sun. She was afraid of what it would do to her. And of what she’d see.

When she said nothing, she heard him sigh.

“Mind if I sit?”

While keeping to her code of silence, she conceded, scooting over on the bench and letting him slide in beside her.

His fingers ghosted over the keys, not playing anything in particular, just a peppering of high notes and minor chords.

“You’re panicking.” It wasn’t a question.

She swallowed hard, letting her trembling hands fall into her lap. When her head lowered, the ridiculously-voluminous ringlets that Madge had crafted with her curling iron fell in front of her face.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Mr. Mellark lifted his hand, his fingers tucking them back over her shoulder so he could look at her. It startled her, but not as much as the fact that it made her stomach burn in an almost-pleasant way. He wasn’t supposed to make her feel like  _this_ , whatever  _this_  was.

“I haven’t been as encouraging as of late,” he admitted, his tone ringing with apology.

She shrugged. “You’ve been stressed about the musical. Rightfully. I’m going to crash and burn.”

“If you keep telling yourself that, you will.” She tried not to focus on the burning sensation she felt where his thigh touched hers. “But you slayed that dress rehearsal, Katniss. So I know you’re capable of greatness.”

She’d rub her eyes, if only she didn’t have an entire tube-worth of mascara framing each lash.

“I’m just scared, you know?”

“I know. I don’t think I was ever  _not_  scared when I performed.”

Her tenacity crumbled, and she found herself finally looking at him, his sympathetic smile dotting dimples into his blushing cheeks. Mr. Mellark was back. The  _old_  Mr. Mellark, the one she trusted and relied on, and the one who made her feel safe. She felt heat sparking in her core, alongside a little peppering of confidence.

“Really?”

His smile widened. “I’m scared every day I  _teach_ , Katniss. I’m always afraid of messing things up. But you learn to harness it. Which, might I add, you are fully able to do. You did it yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, that was when every single cast member’s parents weren’t watching me act. Or sing.” She gulped. “Or make out with Gale Hawthorne.”

That was what she was  _least_  excited about.

Something in her words or tone made Mr. Mellark stiffen at her side. His fingers splayed out on the keys as he looked to the wooden paneling of the piano, avoiding her eyes.

“Then don’t.”

“I already told him I would,” she said. They’d been practicing that way for three weeks. She couldn’t just pull the rug out from under him now.

“If you’re not comfortable with it, you don’t have to do it.” His jaw went rigid, his cheekbones popping out from the strain. “That’s why I initially told you a hug would suffice.”

A sudden flicker of boldness ignited in her core, and her mouth opened.

“Is that why?” She swallowed hard. “That’s it?”

The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to rein the back in, and screech at the voices of Delly and Madge in her head which had been the ones to prompt this outburst. The thoughts floating in her head weren’t hers. They were _theirs_. Katniss knew Mr. Mellark’s intentions were good – her friends were just misguided, and they’ve since poisoned her.

So she anticipated his rebuff to happen immediately. A gruff “yes” would’ve suited her just fine.

Thus, the responding silence that flattened them instead only frightened her.

After what could’ve been years, she heard something of a tortured sound burst in the back of his throat, and he pressed his forearm against the paneling of the piano, leaning his forehead against his fist.

“Mr. Mellark—” she whispered, intending for it to sound like a question, but it came out more as a gasp, as a plea. But for what, she was afraid to know.

“You’re my student, Katniss.”

“I know that. Believe me, I do.”

“This isn’t okay.”

Her throat tightened, her fists clenching. “What isn’t okay?”

She knew full-well what he meant. But, in her gruesome depravity, she wanted him to say it.

He inhaled, and exhaled, and squeezed his eyes shut. She watched as he leaned back, rubbing his face until it was painted with angry red marks.

Finally,  _finally_ , he turned his head to look at her. There was something tormented there, mixed with apology.

“Since the moment I heard you sing for the first time, I haven’t been able to get your voice out of my head. And I don’t want to. It was so—so  _beautiful._  And pure, and—and I respect you so much, as a student, and as a person, and I don’t want to overstep any boundaries, or do anything stupid that could put either one of us in danger, but I think— _Jesus_ , I think this is just a very roundabout way for me to tell you that even though it’s wrong, and sick, and twisted, and totally  _not_  something I want, I think… I think I’m in love with you, Katniss.”

She let the admission hang there in the atmosphere between them, thickening the air and making it nearly unbreathable. It wasn’t something she thought she could believe, or thought she  _wanted_  to believe, but as it soaked through her burning skin, it awoke something inside of her she’d been trying to sedate for months.

Allowing her inhibitions to melt away, she unclenched her fists, letting her hands reach up to his neck, cupping the heated flesh there, feeling his pulse underneath her fingertips. His gulp resonated against her palms, and he licked his lips, his eyes trained on her own mouth, and she knew where this was heading, and she knew it was  _exactly_  where she wanted it to go.

Denying her feelings was so futile at this point.

She’d only ever tasted Gale’s lips before, slightly slobbery and always tingling with a different aftertaste. All she wanted was to know what Mr. Mellark’s were like.

She needed to find out.

So, she strained from her seat on the bench, using her hands on his neck as leverage as she lifted herself closer, her lips just inches from his.

And suddenly, a rush of cold air ripped across her flesh. He tore away, stumbling from the bench, his own hands flying to his mouth.

“Oh god.  _God._  Katniss, I’m so, so sorry.”

Her heart wrenched. “Mr. Mellark—”

“No, we shouldn’t do this _._  I’m—” His hand was on the door handle, which made her entire body jolt. She tried to stand, tried to object.

“Please,” she begged, her voice a weak cry. “Please, stay with me.”

But he was already slipping through the door.

“I can’t,” was the last thing he said.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have edited this on two hours of sleep, so please forgive me for the unforgivable amount of typos.

Never could Katniss have predicted that washing her hands of the drama department would be so painful. As soon as the curtains fell following the final showing of _Phantom of the Opera_ , she shed her costume, make-up, and any tie to the program. In theory, the act was liberating. In practice, it felt like buffalo trampling on all her vital organs.

While the self-extraction did leave her sore and miserable, it wasn’t all that difficult. Since it was the spring semester, she no longer had class with Mr. Mellark. Thus, she had absolutely no reason to cross paths with him ever, ever, _ever_ again.

Granted, their school was pathetically small, meaning she saw him approximately eight times the following week: five times in the hallway, twice during his shift of lunch supervision, and once out in the parking lot. No matter how quickly she ducked into a locker cove or behind a stalled car to avoid him, his eyes would always manage to find her first. Even if they locked with hers for just a moment, the overwhelming apology and desperation she found there was suffocating.

But he knew better than to approach her. If anything, _he_ was terrified of _her_ , which would’ve given her a small inkling of satisfaction had the situation not left her chest carved out, aching and hollow.

Two weeks after the musical’s final curtain call, Delly leaned over their lunch table, motioning to her friend with a half-eaten Pringle.

“Auditions for the spring play start Monday. Want to rehearse over the weekend?”

Katniss almost choked on her pear. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” She waved the jagged chip in front of Katniss’s nose. “You absolutely _slayed_ Christine.” (By some divine miracle, Katniss wanted to add.) “I’m sure Mr. Mellark would cast you in a heartbeat.”

The sound of his name alone knotted up her muscles, and she looked down to her lunch tray, damning the violent flurry of color in her cheeks. “I don’t really want to audition.”

“What?” Delly whined. “No, Katniss—don’t do this again. I know you get self-conscious, but you were _great_.”

But this wasn’t about Katniss’s performance anxiety, although in any other situation, that would’ve surely influenced her decision. What Katniss couldn’t tell Delly was that she refused to audition for the spring play in fear of finally confronting Mr. Mellark, a.k.a. The Teacher Who Was Six Years Older Than Her And Had Rightfully Rejected Her When She Tried To Kiss Him. What happened between him and Katniss remained locked away in that practice room, and not once had Katniss considered letting even her closest friend in on the secret – however, its upshots still dusted everything she did and everything she thought. It was a weight she couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she thrashed.

After a long pause, Katniss slumped in her chair.

“I’m just… I’m _busy_.”

It was a pathetic excuse wrapped in an even more pathetic tone, but Delly knew better than to push it.

* * *

After the final bell on Monday, Katniss darted quickly to the parking lot, dutifully avoiding all her friends who crowded toward the auditorium. During the final period, Delly had made a last-ditch effort to guilt Katniss into joining the play, or at least the crew, by offering her half her bag of Skittles.

“While that’s a generous offer,” Katniss had said sarcastically, “No amount of empty carbs could possibly convince me.”

As soon as she made it home, Katniss flopped on their moth-eaten sofa with her history textbook, eagerly diving into the pages. Her drive to finish all her assignments was even stronger than usual, so by dinnertime, she’d completed everything scheduled for that night, as well as the next.

After the dishes were cleaned in the sink and propped in the drying rack, Katniss announced to her sister and barely-listening mother that she was going to the grocery store. She needed something to do, something to keep her busy. And also, she really needed some ice cream to drown her woes.

Their town had a small convenience store and a run-down Sun Mart, and because the supermarket was farther across town, she decided on the former. It was a five-minute walk from her house, which felt like ten in the nippy wind, so by the time she huddled through the front door, her face felt like shattered plaster. She padded to the freezer section, heading straight for the shelf with the overpriced ice cream tubs. After settling on rocky road (only because the mint chocolate chip was sold out), she rounded the corner of the aisle on her way to the checkout.

Even with the frost-dusted carton cradled against her chest, her body still managed to blaze at the sight of the man who was ducking through the front door. Despite the shadows slanted under his baseball cap, Katniss could pinpoint the heavy exhaustion in his eyes, and then the shock as their gazes aligned.

Her nails dug into the side of the ice cream tub. Her feet refused to move.

He was able to gather his bearings first, slowly crossing the tiles until he was standing just a foot away, his mouth quirked in a nervous grin. He held up his hand in greeting, and also in an implicit truce.

“Hi, Katniss.”

She couldn’t bring herself to respond.

As the silence webbed between them, his smile faltered. She watched his expression grow too cloudy as his eyes darted away from her. “I—I was hoping to see you at auditions,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard. “I, uh… don’t think theater is exactly my calling.”

“No?” He gave her a regretful smile. “I’m sorry if I had any bearing on that.”

“I’ve got the talent of a rock,” she grumbled. “This doesn’t have to do with…”

The shame from what they did and the weight of all they _didn’t_ do suddenly barreled into her chest, and her lungs clenched painfully as she looked him over. He was still so beautiful, she thought, with his yellow curls peeking out from under the ball cap, his eyes so impossibly blue even in their exhaustion. She still wanted him. Badly. And that was the most painful revelation of all.

Even though she’d prefer he forget her name, she couldn’t help but wonder if he still wanted her, too. If he was still in love with her, as he’d claimed in the practice room.

When her eyes flickered back to his, she found the same depth of disgrace pooled there, and that was all it took for her to know: Yes. Yes, he still felt _exactly_ the same.

It was him who first spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Katniss,” he whispered. “I made such a huge mistake.”

“That makes two of us.”

She watched him flush, studying the regret sitting heavily in his features, its edges fringed in embarrassment. As if _he_ was the one who’d humiliated himself, and not her.

He began shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I—” Her throat stuck as she stepped back, looking him over. _Was he serious?_ “I tried to—you know—”

“Look, everything that happened there was my fault,” he said. “I roped you into this when I should’ve just respected your limits. I mean, you know I didn’t want to feel that way about you, but…” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “People feel things they shouldn’t feel. That’s life. But as your teacher, and an adult, _and_ a generally decent human, it was my responsibility to keep you out of that and not make you feel pressured into doing anything you didn’t want to do—”

Some animalistic sound burst from her throat, which cut him off.

“Are you being real right now?” she hissed. “You think I tried to—to do _that_ —because you guilted me into it?”

She couldn’t tell if he was more startled by her guttural tone or her actual words, but either way, his face was blooming red in mortification. “What else am I supposed to think?”

He was ridiculous. _Ridiculous_. She hated him for entirely blaming himself, and for seeing her as nothing but a victim. But, above all, she hated him because she still couldn’t keep herself from loving him, even with his self-deprecating delusions.

She stepped closer to him, the toe of her shoes nearly brushing his over the tiling. Like this, she could smell him, all cinnamon and Old Spice and _Mr. Mellark_.

“You keep treating me like a child, Mr. Mellark,” she snarled. “And while I might not be an adult yet, I’m very capable of determining my own feelings. Don’t you dare try to tell me that I only wanted you because you manipulated me. You don’t even know the half of it.”

Never being gifted with articulation, she was just as stunned as he seemed to be by her declaration, but had no doubts of its sincerity. She was angry at him for rejecting her, and angry at herself for falling for him in the first place, but never had she once thought her feelings were his fault. She was almost seventeen, god dammit. She might not have always understood her feelings – in fact, more often than not, they left her disoriented – but she wasn’t some immature little fledgling, powerless against the bend of Big Scary Adults. She didn’t love Mr. Mellark because he was interested in her. She loved Mr. Mellark because of who he was, and how he made her feel.

Although she didn’t say this much, she wondered if he could read it in her expression, the unspoken words streaming from her rapidly softening glare. He must’ve understood a small part of it, at least, because he blinked down at her, his lips going slack, his eyes dazed.

Not waiting for a response – partially out of impatience, and partially out of fear of what he might say – she shoved her way past him and toward the checkout, leaving him frozen in the middle of the aisle.

* * *

She’d charted Mr. Mellark’s routes through the school and kept track of the days he supervised the lunch hour, meaning she was able to avoid him more successfully than usual as the week passed.

She wondered how long she’d have to do this. With her stubborn determination, she was confident she could keep up the evasion forever, if necessary.

And it was going so well. At least, until Delly showed up after her sixth hour, dancing at Katniss’s side like a two-year-old in desperate need of a bathroom.

“The cast list comes out after school _today_ ,” she gasped, clutching at Katniss’s fingers. “You need to come look at it with me.”

Katniss blanched. “ _What?_ ”

Going within a thirty-foot radius of the auditorium automatically meant putting herself in high risk of crossing paths with _him_. That simply wouldn’t do.

“Well,” Delly wailed, “I can’t look at it by _myself_ , silly! That’s just bad luck!”

“Your superstitions are stupid.”

“Please?” She squeezed Katniss’s palm. “For your best friend?”

Katniss gaped at her, unsure of how she could possibly decline without Delly breaking down into a fit of melodramatic sobs. There were no good excuses left, so instead of forging something pathetic, she sighed and reluctantly agreed.

* * *

The cast and crew lists were taped to the auditorium doors by the time the final bell rang, immediately heralding flocks of anxious theater kids and poor wingmen like Katniss. Mildly irritated, she waited a safe ten feet away, refusing to subject herself to the violent moshing as Delly squeezed to the front.

In under a minute, her friend returned with tears pouring from the corners of her eyes. Katniss was preparing herself for consolation when Delly blubbered, “I’m _Elaine._ ”

“Is that… bad?”

“I _got a part_ ,” she sobbed, burying her head in Katniss’s collar. Terrified by any display of emotions, Katniss stiffened at her friend’s touchy, exaggerated mode of celebration, but managed to pat her on the head.

“I—I’m happy for you,” she said, cringing at the flowering wetness on her collar. _Jesus, Delly._

When Delly finally pulled herself together, and the horde had dispersed, Katniss caved into her curiosity and padded over to the list. The names blinking back at her weren’t big surprises – Gale Hawthorne was at the top, as were Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason; even Clove made an appearance toward the bottom. Pride swelled in her chest at the sight of her best friend’s name sandwiched in the middle.

But as she perused the tech assignments, her stomach twisted. While Madge was (rightfully) listed as stage manager, the position of chief of lights had been assigned to a girl by the name of Octavia Griffin. Instantly, heat began prickling under Katniss’s skin. Octavia may have been a nice girl, but she was also dumber than a sack of potatoes and knew as much about stage lighting as Katniss knew about eyeliner application.

Fuming, and refusing to think twice about what she was about to do, she bid Delly a terse goodbye and stalked down the hallway.

Most drama teachers before him were intelligent enough to lock their doors upon the release of the cast list, but Mr. Mellark must’ve had a death wish, because he left his wide open. She found him perched in his swivel chair, hunched over a thin stack of what she presumed to be half-graded analyses, but his head snapped up the moment she cut through the door. Flinching at her wild demeanor, he dropped his pen on the floor.

“Katniss?”

“What were you _thinking_? Letting Octavia take over _lights_? Might as well just do your whole damn show in the dark!”

He flushed pink as she slapped her palms on the desk in front of him.

“I was banking on Cressida wanting to do it again,” he managed to sputter, “but AP testing season is coming up, and she wanted to focus on that instead.”

“That’s—that’s _stupid_.”

He held up open palms. “I didn’t have a choice, Katniss. It was Octavia or an empty light booth.”

Even though he was clearly flustered by her presence, he still remained more composed than she was, which further infuriated her. “There should—there _must_ be other options.”

“Well,” he murmured, “my ‘other option’ isn’t willing to work with me right now.”

With the way his eyes carved into her, she expected to hear some degree of accusation in his voice, but there was nothing. Not one ounce. If anything, his tone was colored with disappointment, possibly a touch of self-resentment, but it was too clear that he wasn’t upset with her.

_Fuck him_ , she thought. _Fuck his humility, his purity, his damn perfect eyes that still make me feel things._

As she stood across from him in silence, measuring the shifts in his expression as he measured the shifts in hers, the reality of her situation suddenly bore down on her.

She wasn’t here because she was angry at him, even if her frustration was genuine. She was here because she wanted to see him, wanted a reason to talk to him again; she was so damn tired of avoiding him. Because fury was her sole excuse for confronting him, it was what she’d chosen. If she were stronger, she would’ve been able to swallow her pride and admit this much to him. Somewhere, she truly did want to apologize for being such a brat.

But, when it came to Mr. Mellark, she didn’t trust herself with sentimentality. If she stripped herself of her armor, and softened for him, she’d end up no less heartbroken and humiliated than she had in the aftermath of their practice room confrontation.

So she folded her arms, keeping her jaw set.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I guess… I’ll help Octavia.”

“I’m not trying to force you into this.” There was a dusting of hurt in his expression, one that socked her straight in the gut.

“You need me,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t realize that she needed him, too. Maybe even more.

This statement made him stiffen, though, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes hardening.

“Look. As valuable as you are, I can’t—I _won’t_ bring in someone who’ll just butt heads with me. You aren’t obligated to tech, Katniss. I’ll only take you if you really want to help.”

She was startled by his inflexibility; he’d always stricken her as the overly naïve type to assume he could get his best work from his students if her were to be unconditionally kind. However, while this attitude of his threw her for a loop, she was almost… _proud._

So, softly, she told him, “I _want_ to, Mr. Mellark.”

* * *

She hadn’t lied about her desire to help, but she may have misled him into believing that things between them would be buttery-smooth if he let her come aboard. The awkwardness was still palpable, the tension thick and unforgiving as steel cables at each rehearsal. Half of her wished she could just swallow her pride and be kind to him again – she missed their old dynamic, in which they were both relaxed around each other, where things were easy, or _fun_ , even – but she refused to put herself in any position of vulnerability again. She was convinced that if she remained stringent in her treatment of him, he wouldn’t be able to make her _feel_ things, or, more importantly, he wouldn’t have any idea when he did.

It seemed to upset him, however. Mr. Mellark was incapable of sustaining anything in the neighborhood of anger for more than an hour at a time – it was one of the things she always liked about him, because she was fiery enough on her own and didn’t need him to upstage her in that department. But she didn’t like that so much now. Although his authority over her was unquestionable, he looked too much like a kicked puppy whenever she iced him out, and it made her chest ache. How was she supposed to keep up the pretense of disinterest when he looked so _hurt_ by her?

Midway through March, she was convinced she was nearing her breaking point. She was a diligent worker, which they both knew, so he’d never had any reason to give Octavia her full reign over lights back, but her presence alone seemed to stress him out to the point where he couldn’t even look at her. And she _wanted_ him to look at her. She wanted things to be good between them, even if she wasn’t willing to meet him halfway.

She had half a mind to just apologize, and she almost did after one rehearsal. Someone had accidentally slathered two of the colored filters in spirit gum the day before, and regardless of how carefully Katniss cleaned the slides, they were ruined. She realized this was a perfect excuse to confront Mr. Mellark, who’d retreated to the department office a few moments before as the cast and crew were packing up their bags for the night.

Filters in hand, she padded to his office, her heart hammering at the sight of his open door. She rarely came in here alone – usually, Octavia served as an adequate buffer. But this was something she’d have to do by herself.

So she slipped through doorway, knocking quietly on the door to signal her arrival. Mr. Mellark was hunched over a mound of scores, but his head lifted at her entrance, eyes going wide.

“Katniss?”

“The filters,” she said weakly, holding them up for him to see. “They keep sticking to the lights.”

“Oh.” His brow crinkled. “Well, come in.”

She shut the door behind her, carefully making her way to his desk. He was measuring her every move, as if she’d pounce were he to let his guard down. Was he really that afraid of her?

“They’ve got spirit gum on them. Hell if I know how.” She laid them out on his desk, pointing at the damage. “I tried washing them off, but I think they’re ruined.”

“I suppose I could put in an order for more,” he said, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. The way his arms bowed out made his shoulders and biceps strain under the fabric of his shirt, the contours of his muscles painfully obvious and also painfully beautiful. Jesus.

She didn’t know what else to say on the matter, so she stood there awkwardly for a few moments, calculating how to segue neatly into her half-prepared apology. _So, Mr. Mellark, I haven’t been very gracious as of late, and I wanted to apologize. I know how hard you’re working, and it isn’t fair for me to be so rude to you—_

“Is there something you wanted to talk about?” he began slowly, breaking her train of thought.

She blinked at him a few times, blood sprouting under her cheeks. “I, uh—”

He crooked an eyebrow at her. He was so handsome, so composed that it made her chest throb.

Clenching her fists, she opened her mouth and waited for the apology to tumble out. But instead, she heard herself say, “No, that was all.”

She quickly turned away, but not before seeing his face fall in disappointment, which perfectly mirrored the hollowed pit in her stomach.

* * *

Octavia was out sick for the day, which made virtually no difference to Katniss’s workload; it just meant she’d have to man the light booth by herself. Which was far from a burden. Not only was Octavia agonizingly inefficient, but she was also unfamiliar with the concept of peace and quiet.

So, without her co-chief, Katniss was able to sit back in the chair, one hand prepped on the light board and the other reverently fishing through her bag of carrot sticks.

During their fifteen-minute break, Katniss remained in the booth, even though she knew Delly would probably want to talk to her about something inconsequential. She was just too busy enjoying her solitude, of which she didn’t get enough.

That was, until she heard a light knock on the door. With a carrot stick poised between her teeth, she groaned. “What do you need?”

She anticipated the company of Delly, or maybe even Madge, who’d tell her she missed an earlier cue. But instead, a head of golden curls poked through the door. Her heart plunked into her stomach.

“Oh,” she said dumbly.

He smiled at her. “Mind if I come in?”

All she could manage was a weak nod.

He shut the door behind him, sealing them off from the light-flooded hallway. The booth was small, meant for only two people; there was little space between them, just enough so that she couldn’t feel his breath, but enough for his warm scent to drown her.

“How are you holding up in here alone?” he asked conversationally, taking the chair beside her.

“There’s literally no difference. Except, for the first rehearsal, I don’t have a migraine.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling as he shook his head. “I’m not getting rid of Octavia, you know.”

She loved how relaxed he seemed. In the relationship they had, it was a rarity, and so she refused to take it for granted.

“Just don’t make me work with her for the next play.” She bit down on her carrot stick. “I won’t survive through it.”

When she glanced over at him, she noticed he was looking at her strangely, his eyes twinkling. “The next play?” he said.

She was thankful for the booth’s gloom, dampening the evidence of her blush. “I—well, I don’t know,” she stammered. “Since I’m here for another year, I might as well help out.”

The expression of sheer elation that stitched over his features made her stomach warm – when was the last time he looked at her like that? She hadn’t made him happy in so long.

“What happened to the girl who just wanted to pad her résumé?”

Katniss shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she mumbled. But when her eyes locked with his, she felt a surge of confidence. She swallowed. “I guess she really likes working with her drama teacher.”

She normally would’ve shied away from his stare then, but there was something so compelling in the way his gaze wrapped around hers, his eyes filled with both shock and wonder. They watched each other for what could’ve been ten seconds or ten minutes; she didn’t know, and she guessed that neither did he.

She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say it _now_ , when she’d wanted to say it the week before in the department office, but it spilled from her lips of its own volition, no less certain even in its spontaneity.

“I’m sorry,” she told him.

He had the audacity to look confused. “For what?”

“For—for everything, really.” Her gaze fell to her lap. “I’ve been such a dick.”

“Not exactly the word I would’ve chosen,” he said with a small laugh, which was accompanied by the sound of his chair’s wheels thundering across the tile floor, his knees just brushing hers. “You’ve been… cold, I guess. But, as difficult as it’s been to stomach, I can’t blame you. Things between you and I are… well, put simply, they’re weird, Katniss. I’m not sure how to behave, so I can’t hold you accountable for that, either.”

“At least you’ve tried to be nice to me.” She touched her braid. “There’s no way around it. I’ve been a royal asshole.”

“You’ve been upset with me, which I deserve,” he said, and then he let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. “First, I put you in an awkward position, and then I trivialized your emotions. I just—Katniss, you have to understand that I never wanted to hurt you. I’ve just been so focused on myself – how disgusted I am with my behavior, how I’m putting both of us at risk – that I didn’t put enough energy into thinking about what all this meant for you. But I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately.”

Her cheeks burned. “You have?”

“Well,” he continued hesitantly, “I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to make you comfortable again. I reckoned that treating you the way I used to… you know, _before_ all that happened…” He rubbed his temple. “That seems like the best course of action. We got along so well, and I really appreciated the type of relationship we had.”

“I did, too,” she said softly.

When she stole a glance at him, she found him beaming her way.

“So, what do you say we try to do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know, just… go back to the way things were?”

Her tongue curled behind her teeth, eager to agree. She supposed she’d like that. But her bones were aching for something else, tingling and humming in their plea for more.

She liked Mr. Mellark. A lot. Now that she was faced with the option of erasing that, returning to a semi-healthy student-teacher relationship, she finally realized it was something she couldn’t let go of.

That fire in her belly, the one that’d propelled her forward on the piano bench, urging her to kiss him – she felt it again, smoldering in the bottom of her stomach, just itching to flare.

She wanted him. Holy hell, she _wanted_ him.

Boldly unashamed, she stared at him through the gloom, leaning forward slightly in her seat.

“I don’t think that’s what I want,” she whispered.

Confusion warped his expression, tinged with a little pinch of hurt, but she soon amended that by crawling out of her chair and onto his lap, her legs splaying on either side of his waist. His distress was immediately replaced with shock, his lips parting as she braced her hands on his shoulders.

“Katniss, what—”

She’d never been so brave before. But he made her feel free, wild, and alive.

Holding his jaw with her palms so that he couldn’t tear away this time, she slanted her lips over his.

Underneath her mouth, she heard a small sound of surprise burst in the back of his throat, but it didn’t deter her. She ran her thumb along the sharp cut of his jaw in an implicit prayer for him to join her. His palms flattened against her thighs, in what she assumed was preparation to push her away, but after a few moments of her sighing against his mouth, his fingers curved into her skin, holding her against him.

Finally, _finally_ , she had him.

Much to her pleasure, kissing Mr. Mellark was _far_ different from kissing Gale. Mr. Mellark’s kiss wasn’t so wet and didn’t taste at all like lingering Cheetos; instead, it was more measured, careful, gentle. Patient, even, despite the fact that someone could come knocking on the booth’s door at any moment. He pulled her bottom lip between his as he tightened his grip on her thighs, pulling her closer. The feeling of his erection pressing insistently on her center through his slacks emboldened her, prompting her to deepen the kiss, even though she really had no idea what she was doing. But Mr. Mellark just made it too easy.

“This is so wrong,” he sighed against her lips, but he didn’t stop kissing her. One of his hands slid up over her waist and ribs, moving to cup her cheek, his palm warm and inviting against her jaw. She moved her own hands back to tangle in his hair, reveling in the soft feel of it; she’d wanted to do this for so long, _so long_ , so that the jubilation of finally achieving it was almost suffocating.

And so, when he pulled back with a loud _pop_ of their lips, the distance was even more crushing. It ended too soon – she wanted more, more, more.

Even in the dark, his flush was obvious, his lips slightly swollen and his pupils fat. His hand didn’t release its hold on her thigh, the touch of it sending fronds of electricity straight to her center. She throbbed for him, so badly, and was about to pull his lips back to hers when he brushed her cheek with his thumb.

“We can’t do this now,” he whispered. The tenderness in his voice proved he wasn’t wholly rejecting her, calming her manic nerves. “We need to be careful.”

“I know.”

“Nobody can know.”

“I know.”

“And you have to tell me, _please_ , if you don’t feel safe. I know—I understand how dangerous this is. And I won’t let you get hurt. The moment you want this to end—”

“I won’t want that,” she said, more insistently this time. “I want _you_.”

His eyes smoldered, inky and deep, as he caressed her cheek. “I want you too, Katniss. So much. So, _so_ much more than I should.”

For good measure, and for some self-satisfying claim of entitlement, she pressed her lips to his forehead, the heat of his skin swirling with the heat of her own. Subconsciously, Mr. Mellark’s grip tightened on her thighs one final time before letting go. She couldn’t wait for his hands to find her again, whenever that would be.

* * *

Neither had suggested he return after rehearsal, but she lingered in the booth for several moments after he dismissed the cast and crew, craving his company. Of course, Mr. Mellark wouldn’t let her down; five minutes after she watched the stage clear, the metal handle jiggled.

As soon as the door was shut behind him, the lock clicked into its socket, she rose from her seat.

“Long time no see,” she joked.

Even in its shyness, his responding smile was thick with need, making heat flutter in her veins. He scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh—I guess I have little self-control.”

“I’m not complaining.” She flitted up to him, flattening her palms against his chest. Through his shirt, skin, and muscle, she could feel the torrential strokes of his heart against her hands. She wanted to find his pulse in his neck and kiss it.

In response to her touch, Mr. Mellark’s own hands moved to grip her waist, his index fingers brushing the thin strip of skin between her t-shirt and her jeans. Where their skin connected, she blazed.

She wanted to know what his hands felt like elsewhere.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he whispered, his nose nuzzling hers.

Katniss couldn’t remember the last time she was so sure about anything, so she nodded.

Tentatively, he touched his lips to hers, but only once before drawing back again. Hesitantly soft, he whispered, “I thought you hated me.”

“I wanted to,” she admitted. His fingers flexed against her sides. “And I was really pissed off, partially because you didn’t want me, and partially because I couldn’t hate you for it. I’m just really good at holding grudges, Mr. Mellark.”

“You’re good at a lot of things.” Dragging his bottom lip between his teeth, he lifted a hand to trace his index along the lines of her cheekbone and jaw, charting her features for memorization. “But I hope you know that I _did_ want you. I just—I _couldn’t_ , Katniss.”

“What made you change your mind?”

Iridescent and bright as ice crystals, his eyes burrowed into hers, his thumb edging the curve of her lips.

“I think you know,” he whispered.

Tired of talking, she dug her fingers into his shirt’s fabric, yanking him against her body. His mouth crashed dazedly against hers, fumbling for a moment before he cradled her face, steadying the kiss. She was afraid he’d soon realize how horribly inexperienced she was, or that he’d already realized, but if he did, he didn’t let on. He just kissed her more fully, holding and supporting her frame on his.

With her fingers greedily tangling in his hair, and his palms moving from her cheeks to her back, gliding warmly over the ridges of her spine, he walked her backward, until the harsh edge of the counter that held the light equipment cleaved into the small of her back. Air grated her throat as she gasped desperately to the feel of him hoisting her up, propping her on the worktop’s lip.

In what Katniss assumed was a final bid for nobility, Mr. Mellark left a few inches of space between them as he continued to ravage her lips. But she wouldn’t stand for the distance. She’d wanted him, and been deprived of such relief, for too long; there was no time for decency, and certainly not for patience. So, none too timidly, Katniss kicked out her legs on either side of his hips, wrapping them around his waist to pull him closer. He sighed into her mouth as their bodies met, and she couldn’t help but gasp at the feeling of his erection, large and insistent, against the inseam of her jeans.

Katniss had never fallen for anyone before, and perhaps this was why she absolutely plummeted head-over-heels for Mr. Mellark. But it made sense to her. She needed him in a way she’d never needed anyone, and she wanted him to know this – or, she wanted him to take advantage of this. Not take advantage of _her_ , no; he couldn’t, considering she was a willing participant. Possibly more willing than him, although by the way his fingers plotted and lionized her body, she guessed he might want her just as much.

So, one of her hands glanced down the curve of his pectorals, down the flat of his stomach, relishing in the way his abdominal muscles clenched under her movements. But she didn’t stop there. Still kissing him, she tasted the way his breath caught in his throat as her fingers skated along the top of his belt, toying slightly with the silver buckle.

It was this that compelled him to pull back, his eyes searching hers.

“What do you want?” he whispered. With the way the thick gruffness of his tone glazed each word, she was convinced he’d be willing to give her the sun and the moon, were she to ask for them.

Emboldened, she slid her hand down to cup him over his slacks. His eyes fluttered closed at her touch.

“Fuck _me_ ,” he groaned.

Katniss smiled deviously. “Exactly.”

But his eyes widened at her implication, his palms moving back to her face. Shivers trickled down her spine as he brushed the hollows of her cheeks with his thumbs, tenderly cupping her jaw.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

She frowned, heat flowering where his palms met her skin. “Seriously?”

“I mean, I don’t want to hurt you—”

“You’re rejecting me _again_?”

His jaw slackened, brow furrowing. “Rejec— _what?_ Katniss, no. I’m not refusing you. I just—I don’t think it’s very smart of us to… to… do _that_ quite yet. I mean, I don’t even have a condom—”

His pacification techniques didn’t have their desired effect, and she slapped her palms on her thighs, trying not to lose it. “What, are you worried about me being _clean_?” she snarled.

He flinched, shock lacing its way over his features, but he didn’t let her go. “No. _No._ Katniss, I just—I want to be safe with you. And I want you to be comfortable. Especially if—” His throat bobbed. “Would this be your, uh… your first time?”

Heat stung her forehead. Still incensed, but now semi-humiliated as well, she could only bring herself to nod.

She expected this to change things, and anticipated his patronization. But he only leaned forward to kiss her forehead, then her nose, then her reluctant lips.

“Katniss, I’m not going to allow your first time to happen in a muggy light booth.” He tucked back her hair as he sat down in the chair, just off the counter’s edge, his chest now in between her splayed legs. From his new position, he peered up at her as his palms caressed her hips. “Look. When I told you I was falling in love with you… I wasn’t lying. Just like I wasn’t lying when I told you I was scared. This relationship – what we have – shouldn’t be happening, but I think neither of us want to follow convention any longer. But that doesn’t mean I can start being reckless with you. If anything, it means we have to be more careful. I—” He looked away from her, rubbing the cut of his jaw. “I don’t want to lose you, Katniss,” he said quietly. “I’m scared that if I’m careless with you, I will before I can even blink. That thought terrifies me.”

The raw warmth in his voice softened her, making her muscles uncoil. She slumped on the counter, moving to flatten her palms over the backs of his hands, which cupped her waist. She pried them away, lacing her fingers in with his, feeling the energy in his palms snarling beautifully with hers.

She squeezed.

“And I’m terrified that you’ll realize you don’t want me,” she told him, finding that with him, honesty was oddly easy.

He pegged her with a sad smile. “I’ve wanted you since I first heard you sing, and I’ve been unable to stop in every day that followed, no matter how hard I tried. I don’t think a little patience is going to destroy how I feel about you.”

“But something else will,” she whispered, feeling her throat thicken. “Maybe you’ll realize I’m boring, or you’ll get tired of my temper, or you’ll meet someone you can actually be with, _or_ you’ll decide I’m not special enough for—”

To silence her, he pressed his lips to the inside of her knee, the warmth of his mouth bleeding through the fabric.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

And then he nudged his chair closer, so that his ribs were pressed against the lip of the counter, his hands gripping at her shirt to gently lift it over her abdomen. His mouth was hot but tender on her stomach as he worshipped the skin there, and she gripped his shoulders, relishing the hard curve of his biceps.

When his jaw brushed the hem of her jeans, she felt him hesitate, although she didn’t know why he was. At least, not until he pulled back, the pads of his index and thumb dancing around the rim of the button.

“Let me at least do this for you,” he murmured, his eyes imploring her, as if she’d have any desire to refuse him. But she didn’t, and she knew she never would. So she eagerly nodded and helped him with her jeans.

He peeled them from her legs, discarding them on the floor beside his chair; then he began mapping the skin of her inner thighs with patient fingers, making her tremble. After removing her own shirt for good measure, she gripped the counter behind her for something to hold onto, accidentally nudging a few of the light board controls out of place; she’d have to reorient them tomorrow. She simply didn’t have time to care about that now, though.

Her throat bobbed as she watched him watch her, his palms igniting her flesh. He kissed the inside of her thigh, so close to their juncture. She wondered if he could tell how wet she was even with the thin layer of her cotton underwear between them.

She swallowed down a moan when he dipped his head in, barely pressing his lips to her covered center. Even through the fabric, the contact electrified her; she didn’t think she’d survive his touch if he were to actually remove her underwear.

Sensing her trail of thought, Mr. Mellark curled his fingers underneath the hem of her panties, pulling gently. She lifted her hips to aid him, one hand planted on the counter for leverage, the other palming her sternum, feeling the arrhythmic flutter underneath. Her whole body felt flushed as he snaked his arms around her legs, his hands holding her legs open by her inner thighs so he could look at her. She’d never been _looked at_ before, at least not like this; her heartbeat sped into a wild chase, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Katniss,” he murmured, his voice tangibly warm, his breath curling against her center. _Oh god oh god oh god_. “Has anyone ever touched you before?”

She swallowed and shook her head, still too afraid to look at him. As a preordained victim to teenage hormones, she’d been driven to touch herself on occasion, but he was the first to ever get this far. And this terrified her. What if she wasn’t good enough?

Evidently attuned to her distress, Mr. Mellark swept his thumbs along her flesh, perhaps in attempt to soothe her. It worked partially, at least enough to coax her eyes open; she chanced a look down at him to find him gazing up at her from between her legs, his eyes hooded and his smile soft.

“I’m the luckiest guy alive,” he told her.

And then his head dipped in, his tongue sweeping along her heated flesh.

She was grateful he was holding onto her, because had he not been, she probably would’ve plummeted off the side of the counter. But he anchored Katniss as he tasted her with measured strokes of his tongue, luring choppy breaths and soft moans from her throat.

“Mr. Mel _lark_ ,” she sighed, singing out as she tangled her fingers in his hair. He responded by drawing his focus upward, gently suckling on the point where all her pleasure began and ended, making pale lights flood her vision.

He’d told her, many times, that he loved her voice when she sang; by the way he eagerly returned her melodic sighs and honeyed moans with deeper, more reverent strokes, she couldn’t help but wonder if he liked _this_ side of her voice even more.

She encouraged him whenever he did something that felt good, although judging by the confidence in his calculated determination, she knew that _he_ knew what he was doing. He stroked the inside of her thigh as his mouth praised her flesh, stringing her up on a high she’d never quite experienced. After all, her own fingers weren’t anywhere near as exquisite as Mr. Mellark’s practiced lips.

She felt her muscles tremble, her veins singed deliciously as her blood rushed to her center. It was all happening too soon, but with the way he made love to her with his mouth, she couldn’t bring herself to hold out. Everything was too intense, too warm and soft and charged around the edges, electricity throbbing through her entire body. She let her head fall back, a lyrical moan pouring from her throat as he kissed her to her climax, her fingers braided in his roots, holding him too close but still not close enough. And there she was, elevated into a vibrant oblivion, singing out her devotion to the golden man with the golden tongue.

When it was over, her whole body shaking and numbed from her release, he pulled her down to his lap, twining his arms around her. She felt like pudding in his hold, but she couldn’t bring herself to care; the only thing she could focus on was the way his fingers gently tucked her sweaty hair from her face and moved to trace sweet nothings along her spine.

Looping her arms around his shoulders, she pressed her lips to the spot on his neck where his pulse throbbed, falling in love with the way it sped for her. She thanked him, and he told her it was his pleasure, even though she was fairly certain it was, in fact, hers.

She didn’t know how long they remained there, cooped up in the too-small light booth, clinging to each other. Even though she was functionally naked and he wasn’t, and she was sweaty and boneless while he remained solid and steady, the moment was so implausibly intimate, and she dreaded the moment she’d have to let go, have to go back to pretending he was just the drama teacher, and she was just a student, and there was nothing between them, even though they really had everything.

But this time, when she asked him to stay with her, he laid a gentle kiss to her nose and promised, “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come give me love at the-peeta-pocket.tumblr.com.

**Author's Note:**

> As this is posted, part two is currently being written. Fingers crossed that I'll be able to get it up within 24 hours, but no promises.


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